


Where Evil Grew

by speckosaurus



Series: Where Evil Grew [1]
Category: Sonic the Hedgehog (2020), Sonic the Hedgehog - All Media Types
Genre: Bullying, Homophobia, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oh no wait just straight up violence, backstories, i didn't beta this, mention of violence, sorry it's a little messy, this song works for them on so many levels, where evil grows
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-11
Updated: 2020-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:26:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23099293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/speckosaurus/pseuds/speckosaurus
Summary: An orphaned young boy who is unable to relate to his peers.An outcast young boy who is ostracised for being different.Agent Stone and Dr Robotnik find themselves fascinated by each other; brought together by bureaucracy and drawn closer by some unknown force. They can't help but wonder how the evil grew within the other. We just might find out.
Relationships: Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik & Agent Stone, Dr. Eggman | Dr. Robotnik/Agent Stone
Series: Where Evil Grew [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1660270
Comments: 13
Kudos: 125





	1. The Way You Smile At Me

**Author's Note:**

> This is of course based on the song Where Evil Grows, which was perfectly used in the movie! Each chapter is a different verse/chorus/bridge from the song.

Agent Stone had always liked the way Robotnik smiled at him.

Doctor Robotnik rarely smiled at anyone, really. He would smirk and sneer, or force fake, toothy grins when he wanted to be sarcastic or deceptive. But the man was never truly smiling _at_ them, as much as he was smiling to himself. No one had earned the right.

Even when Stone would present him with a freshly brewed latte, delectable by the Doctor’s own admission, the best he could hope for was a begrudging glare and the amusing sight of milky foam clinging to the man’s harsh moustache.

Stone had yet to earn a genuine smile from Robotnik, but he was lucky enough to witness it. On the rare occasion when Robotnik had a particular stroke of genius; not just the kind he had every few hours, but one he had every month or so upon the completion of a long winded project or the discovery of an elusive solution to an almost impossibly complex problem. Stone made it his business to be there for those arduous projects, when Robotnik was practically pulling his hair out and knocking tools and blueprints to the floor in one of his dramatic tirades across the lab. He made it his duty, not only because it was in those moments when Robotnik most needed a pair of human ears to sound off ideas and vent his frustrations, but because Stone lived to be there for the moment when Robotnik would stumble upon an answer. And Stone knew that he always would.

It was then that an uncontrollable grin would spread across Robotnik’s lips, causing the ends of his moustache to curl and the hair on the back of Agent Stone’s neck stand on end. Doctor Robotnik would smile, eyes bearing into Stone expectantly as he awaited his right-hand man’s praise and amazement. The agent couldn’t resist smiling back and relishing in the heat that bubbled up behind his chest.

He could never be the cause of that smile, but he knew he was lucky to be on the receiving end of it.

In those moments, Doctor Robotnik seemed to appreciate Stone’s presence more than ever. Stone knew all the right questions to ask, the things that he would relish in answering. The man certainly loved to brag and would go into great detail on his train of thought when he was in the right mood.

None of that was in Stone’s job description, of course. More than a mere henchman, he was primarily employed to coordinate intel and information sharing, protect the lives of whichever valuable minds he was assigned to, and reinforce protocol to ensure that none of those minds became too big for their boots. Robotnik was listed as a “high risk” assignment; someone who was likely to turn on the government if they weren’t careful.

Stone could see why, so it only baffled his colleagues all the more that he entertained such trivial tasks amidst his far more serious duties. Making lattes, picking up Robotnik’s lunch or laundry, watching him work when it wasn’t paramount. His fellow agent and closest confidant, Agent Malone, frequently made a point to remind him of that.

“You’re not his _assistant_ , Stone. Stop bringing him coffee. You’ll set a precedent,” was one of the first things she warned him of. The precedent had been set long ago, but Agent Stone knew that was all his own doing. Doctor Robotnik had never asked him for a latte, in fact the man had never tasted one in his life. Stone simply handed him one on a particularly stressful mission, hoping to help the man relax, and just like that Robotnik was hooked. Not enough to earn him a smile, but Stone was immensely proud of himself for that. To make even the smallest impact on Robotnik’s life.

“You’re getting too involved,” Malone noted before long. “Be careful around him.”

“I’m improving trust and productivity,” Stone would argue with a reassuring smile and swiftly change the topic. That was all he was willing to say on the matter. He couldn’t admit to a colleague, no matter how friendly they were, that he was strangely drawn to Doctor Robotnik. It was his job to monitor and protect him, to handle the interactions that Robotnik didn’t care for, but it was his _pleasure_ to make him sweet, heart-warming lattes. It was his pleasure to hear all about the Doctor’s impressive breakthroughs. To draw that smile out of him by coaxing Robotnik into brag about himself.

Even now, as Stone watched Robotnik’s face scrunch up with scrutiny, he was happy to wait patiently for that moment. That eventual stroke of genius when Robotnik would-

“That’s it,” Robotnik muttered through his teeth, leaning forward on his desk to stare closer at the large blue monitor stretched across the wall.

Stone straightened his shoulders, not lifting his eyes from the monitor. “What is it, doctor? Did you think of something?” he asked diligently.

“I’m always thinking of something, Stone,” Robotnik replied without missing a beat before he pushed his wheeled chair away from his desk, rotating once before springing to his feet. He took three wide steps towards Stone, closing the gap between them in an instant. “So yes, I did think of something. I not only thought of how we’re going to track down that defective insurgent, but also of how exactly I’m going to make him wish he was never born.” The man’s breath was hot on Stone’s face, but the agent didn’t flinch. He waited for a few more seconds before the doctor’s stern lips morphed into a wide, smug smile.

“Excellent, sir. What are you planning?” Stone watched as Robotnik turned his grin back to the monitor, his fingers already working meticulously on the pads of his gloves.

“I haven’t got the time to entertain you with an elaboration, Stone,” the man rolled his eyes, but his smirk was unwavering. As he stepped towards the monitor again, his eyes narrowed like a predator about to zone in on its prey; malicious, conniving and eager to destroy. “Now, make yourself useful and tell those bumbling monkeys outside to ready my aircraft. And have my flight suit pressed.”

“Yes sir,” Stone nodded, allowing himself to observe Robotnik in his element for just a moment longer.

The more Stone was subjected to that winning, wicked smile, the more he wondered how Doctor Robotnik became the confident, relentless man that he was today. How someone so intelligent and gifted could become so wicked in the first place. Agent Stone couldn’t help but wonder where that evil grew.


	2. In The Dark

Evil grows in the dark.

In rundown orphanages and on cold concrete doorsteps, long forgotten by the State and the people who only stopped by for a one-time drop-off.

In looming, creaky staircases and the dusty crawlspaces in the attic where little Ivo would escape to. Hunched in draughty corners, meticulously sorting his gadgets and treasures where prying eyes and grubby mitts could never find them.

It was something he learned long before he had even developed a cognitive memory; when you belonged to the State, so did everything you owned. Your clothes, your bed, the roof that hung indefinitely overhead. Not to mention that sharing a room with five other boys – rotten, rancid, rambunctious boys – meant that privacy was nothing but a fantastical concept.

So Ivo was protective over the seemingly insignificant bolts and screws he collected. Every time the other boys broke something in a shrewd display of fake bravado or a failed understanding of the basic concept of gravity, Ivo would be sure to harvest it for spare parts. He could just as easily fix it of course, but why reward their bad behaviour and negate the consequences of brutish mammalian stupidity?

No, he would make something better. Trivial things at first. Silly hodgepodge experiments that were nothing compared to the grand plans that he spent his nights sketching. Theme parks, robots, space ships. Those were far beyond the abilities of a child, but not for long. As Ivo began to absorb any and all reading material he could get his hands on at his subpar excuse for a school and the mediocre local library, he honed his craft. Remote control cars were his favourite to modify. Pointless clunky toys became useful tools to retrieve snacks from the kitchen when he was supposed to be asleep, or eavesdrop on his so-called carers.

It was in those cherished moments, when Ivo had the peace and the space to tinker with his gadgets or pour his ideas out onto paper, that the whole world went quiet around him and he could forget about the life he was thrust into. He could fantasise about another life; one that he was determined to carve out for himself.

Ivo wasn’t a bad child. Not at first. He had always been _odd_. Studious, withdrawn, perhaps a tad bit smug with a tendency to brag. Although he didn’t see the problem with what he deemed a perfectly reasonable sense of superiority. He had nothing in common with the other children, whether they were fellow orphans, forced siblings or bumbling classmates. Ivo didn’t “play” like other children did. What a waste of time that would be! He found their conversations bland and pointless. Sometimes he would tell them as much. It certainly didn’t make him popular.

For the most part, the other children avoided him. The more impish sort settled for gossip or light antagonising to occupy their boring, meaningless lives. Occasionally they would shout at him across the playground or “accidentally” shove past him during a game of tag. Ivo was unaffected, aside from the slight annoyance when it would dirty his uniform or cause him to drop whatever finicky pieces of hardware he had been busy rewiring or disassembling.

The names didn’t bother him either. In fact it made Ivo grin when he overhead some girls claiming he was secretly a robot. He wished he was. It was that seemingly insignificant comment that led him to come up with a new name for himself: “Robotnik”. It was much better than the generic surname the orphanage imposed on all its abandoned runts. This name was unique and it was his. One of the only things, besides his inventions, that was truly and only _his_. It sounded important. Intimidating. Badass.

That name was also the very thing which got the attention of a particular degenerate from Ivo’s school. A snickering Neanderthal of a boy. The first seed of evil was planted in Ivo Robotnik’s mind when that cretin’s filthy fist connected with Ivo’s face.

At first it was the pain that broke him, a horrible ache that surged through his cheekbones and felt like his eye would burst out of its socket. A swirling, incessant pulse that vibrated through his jaw and caught in his winded throat.

Then it was the humiliation. The girlish gasps and boyish laughter around him as his ears rang. The way the barbarian stood triumphantly, receiving congratulatory pats and empty compliments from his peers as though he _achieved_ something. As though he was _worth_ something.

Then it was the hatred. It festered inside of Ivo as he clutched his face and his vision became red and hazy. His mind flooded with a thousand different ways to silence them. A way to incinerate every single person who stood by and watched his first great fall, as though it were some cheap debased form of _entertainment_.

It wasn’t fair. Ivo knew he was better than this sad excuse for a homo sapiens. His gifted mind and natural talent for mathematics and technology were far more valuable than that boy’s brutish fists and his puny, wasteful existence. Surely everyone knew that. People were unforgivably stupid, Ivo knew that more than anything, but surely this was plain to see!

But no. The laughter continued. That single punch opened up the floodgates, seemingly giving every other child a free pass to more aggressively torment Ivo. A cruelly childish game, a glorified pissing contest at the expense of someone far superior to them. That punch had hurt so much that he was too afraid to fight back at first, withdrawing further into the corners of the orphanage. But those dark corners were where the evil continued to grow.

He wouldn’t allow himself to waste his talents and cower like a mindless sheep. Especially not because of some nameless piece of scum who would likely die with a third grade reading level and no discernible accomplishments other than the time he punched an unassuming genius for sport.

Ivo poured over his books and sketchpad as the sheer hatred consumed his thoughts, fidgeted with scrap metal and nails until his fingers were cut and calloused. Ivo worked harder than he ever had, harder than that pathetic mouth breather ever could, until his first _real_ robot was complete.

When he brought his new invention to school, his classmates snickered and jeered. But not for long. Not when his aforementioned assailant was splayed across the playground. Blood stained the tarmac, littered with fragments of teeth. The students who previously goaded him were now backing away, deathly silent, while onlookers squealed and scurried to summon their teachers. Ivo didn’t care; the adults were just as brainless as the rest of them.

Ivo stood a comfortable distance from the broken boy on the ground. Ambulance sirens muffled the hapless cries for help around them and silenced the names they called him now. Psycho. Freak. Monster. A teacher grasped Ivo by the shoulder, but the boy didn’t flinch. All the while he simply grinned, hands folded neatly behind his back. Immensely proud of his handiwork. Imagining how he would gladly do it again.

But the more he mulled over it, the more he realised he was far from satisfied. This single display of dominance wasn’t enough to satiate his hunger for revenge. He had proven himself only to a playground full of people and he would likely encounter more prehistoric pissheads like this one. Yes, it became clear that he would have to prove himself to the world.

While he stood there grinning, his tainted mind continued to work overtime, plotting out a plethora of new ideas. Torture devices. Machines that could level cities. Robots that could replace humanity once and for all.

Ivo Robotnik grinned as the evil grew inside of him.


	3. The Will Within You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This turned out a bit longer than I intended, plus it's rushed. But I really needed to write this, so enjoy!

The first thing that Doctor Robotnik did when a human stumbled their way carelessly into his life was to break them. Utterly destroy any semblance of control or dominance they think they might have, and assert himself as their superior in every sense of the word. It was imperative to his productivity, as well as his sanity, that they know their place before they could say anything abhorrently stupid.

Observant and analytical, he could pick any single person apart at a glance. Accurately guess their level of education simply by their vocabulary and the way they carried themselves. Immediately spot their insecurities by how they smiled or trembled or spoke to others. In less than two minutes and without stopping for a breath, Robotnik would tear them down to their most basic components until they could see just how insignificant they were to the rest of the world. And most importantly, to him.

It was easy, but he did it so many times that it sometimes felt like a chore; a tiresome necessity. A mere formality. But when the government was forcing a glorified babysitter on him, as they often insisted on doing, Robotnik relished the opportunity. It was like a game and he sure to make every word count. As a result, most agents that were assigned to him kept themselves at stark distances for the duration of their assignment and generally requested transfers after completing one mission with the doctor.

Agent Stone, however, was an enigma. Robotnik thought he had him pegged at first; a brown nosing pretty boy who was accustomed to getting what he wanted simply by smiling and letting his superiors walk all over him. That suited Robotnik just fine; those types were much easier to control, if not grating yes-men after a period of time. But during the first month of his “partnership” with Stone, it became clear that there was much more to the agent than he initially thought.

Admittedly, Stone was a more than capable agent. Most tasks were completed efficiently without much guidance from the proud doctor, although they weren’t always done exactly to his liking. Robotnik knew that if he wanted something done right, he could only trust himself to do it, but that simply wasn’t practical. For the most part, Agent Stone was good enough. That said, he wasn’t a machine and therefore he wasn’t perfect. The slightest error or flaw was immediately intercepted and shredded apart by Robotnik. He wouldn’t tolerate failure or insolence in his lab.

What perturbed Doctor Robotnik was that, despite the initial attempt to break him down to the very atoms that created him, and despite all subsequent incidents when the doctor would relentlessly reprimand him, he had yet to truly _break_ his agent. Stone would take his verbal lashings like a pristine statue. He would stand at attention and look Robotnik directly in the eyes when pinned to the wall, thick brows furrowed. Listening intently. Absorbing every word that he was mercilessly subjected to. But he wouldn’t stutter. Didn’t need more than a moment to compose himself and get back to the task at hand.

And when he returned from a task, he would smile at the doctor. Not timidly, as though he were desperately seeking approval. Warmly. Genuinely pleased to be there, to have completed the doctor’s request, no matter what wicked things Robotnik called him mere hours ago.

Try as he might, Doctor Robotnik couldn’t kill the will within Agent Stone.

He couldn’t understand it, but that wasn’t a shocking revelation to the doctor. He often struggled to understand or empathise with the trivial motivations of humanity. Naturally he was suspicious when Agent Stone first brought him a latte. Surely it was a ploy to win him over. The audacity, to assume that a man of the doctor’s calibre could be so easily fooled! Simply because this easily replaceable government pawn was doing something _nice_ for him, because he _wanted_ to? Pah! From that day on, Robotnik requested one of Stone’s signature lattes every workday. That would show him. Now that it was an obligation, Stone couldn’t possibly expect any brownie points or special treatment for simply _doing his job_.

Besides, Stone’s lattes were exceptionally soothing.

No other agent that Robotnik encountered in all his years of service were quite as chipper as Agent Stone. Pleasant people didn’t become agents. It required a ruthless attitude and a cold heart. Exactly what Robotnik considered himself to have, with the added bonus of an insurmountable IQ. He had his concerns early on in their partnership that Stone would be unable to handle it; not only the pressures of the job and the strict expectations that Robotnik had for him, but the very real potential for danger.

Those doubts were cast away like flaming driftwood the very first time Robotnik witnessed Stone kill a man. The higher-ups had sent them to Egypt to test out Robotnik’s latest batch of roving bots. The doctor had spent the past month honing his newest AI technology on them and now they were keen to put them to use. But it seemed that their whereabouts had been tracked, or perhaps even leaked. With only a handful of agents around him, their operations were cut short with an ambush.

“Doctor, get behind me!” Agent Stone sprang to action, shoving Robotnik out of the path of a barrage of bullets. In the moment, they didn’t know who or what their assailants were after; Robotnik’s inventions or Robotnik’s life. He had made many enemies in his lifetime and this wasn’t his first brush with death.

Robotnik hated to run from a fight, but he was smart enough to know that he was as good as dead if he remained out in the open desert, unarmed and without protection. The other bland, nameless agents began to fire at the helicopter that hovered dangerously close, while Agent Stone swiftly guided Robotnik into the nearest van. “Stay here and keep your head down,” he instructed, shutting the door and leaving Robotnik behind the safety of bulletproof glass.

He doctor swore under his breath. If his agents couldn’t perform then he had no chance of survival and he _loathed_ the thought of being dependent on someone of much lower status than himself. At the total mercy of some barbaric gun-slinging urchin. He wanted to bring his Badniks instead of these wasteful meat bags, but _no_. The big men upstairs refused to give him clearance. They insisted it would be a simple trial.

_Just wait until I get back to base. I’ll show them just how much better my Badniks are. Then they’ll regret-_

A loud crash shook Robotnik out of his internal grumblings. He pressed his face to the window to see the helicopter barrel into the ground, sending gusts of sand shooting across the van and causing it to rock. Five agents held their fire, while Stone reloaded his gun with impressive precision.

One agent lay face-down in the sand. _Useless_ , Robotnik tutted under his breath.

“They escaped,” one agent yelled, and Robotnik craned his neck to see three shapes emerge from behind the wreckage.

Two masked men darted out and fired rapidly at the agents, striking several of Robotnik’s innocent bystander bots.

“No, you imbeciles!” he yelled, slamming his fists on the thick windscreen.

One agent fell back with a yelp and clutched her arm tight against her side. Her fellow agents stepped forward to shield her. Robotnik sighed, growing increasingly antsy. Thankfully Stone was quick to put an end to the dragged out pantomime. He stood defiantly against the men and fired his gun twice, so quickly that his arm barely seemed to move, sending two bullets striking through their hearts. They collapsed on the sand like dead flies, snuffed out in an instant.

“Stone!” the bleeding agent yelled, catching the young man’s attention. Robotnik’s breath caught in his throat as Stone spun to catch the arm of a third masked man, brandishing a large machete. The man was much larger than Stone, hulking and broad, but Stone was able to hold him almost effortlessly in place. Robotnik watched as his agent stared up at the man before bending his arm back with an aching crunch. Before the machete could hit the ground, Stone swiftly winded the man with a jab to the stomach. The man fell to his knees with a gasp, scrambling to stand. But Stone wouldn’t allow it. Without a hint of mercy, Stone grabbed hold of his head and twisted; snapping his neck.

For a few seconds, Agent Stone stared down at his deed with a sharp intensity in his eyes.

For a split second, Robotnik thought he saw him smirk.

He hadn’t realised how fast his heart had been racing or how his lips were slightly agape until two of the injured agents returned to the van, rummaging for the first aid kit. Stone remained outside, firmly giving orders to the remaining agents to salvage the damaged bots. The doctor quickly composed himself.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he snapped at the dishevelled agents as they bled over the front seat of the van. “Get back out there and make sure my robots are retrieved!”

“Apologies, Doctor, but we need-“

“ _Apologies Doctor_ ,” he imitated them like a shameless child, “What you _need_ is to do exactly what I say before I have you all shipped to Guantanamo Bay for your apparent inability to follow a simple instruction! Those robots are worth more than your lives and the lives of your _precious_ families combined. They are far more useful to me than you will be in your entire life and they will continue to be useful to me long after you’re dead. Is that clear?”

The female agent’s face turned sickly pale, but Robotnik couldn’t take all the credit. She had also lost a lot of blood. Not that he was at all concerned. She was clearly disposable and besides, it was barely more than a flesh wound. Nothing she couldn’t easily recover from.

When the agents shut the van door and returned to help the others, Robotnik watched from the quiet safety of his seat. His eyes trained on Agent Stone. The same man who smiled mindlessly when he handed him a sweet smelling latte and proudly rhymed off the convoluted ingredients he had added. The same man who attempted to dance with him when the doctor was in a particularly good mood, and who made flippant, innocent excuses when he was caught.

The same man who, just moments ago, snapped a man’s neck. And when he did, he revealed the slightest ounce of evil that had grown inside of him.

 _It seems I need to do a little more research on this “Agent Stone”_ , Robotnik thought as they travelled back to base. When he arrived back at the lab, he wasted no time in digging up every file he could on the agent.

Doctor Robotnik needed to know where this evil grew.


	4. Cracks and Holes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long! It's been a rough week and I wanted to do Agent Stone justice in this chapter. It was hard to get it right, but I think this will do. Please enjoy!

Evil grows in cracks and holes.

In competitive gym classes and hostile locker rooms, boys jostling each other and flailing their sweaty towels like peacock feathers.

In the dirt and lime scale that festers in cracks and gaps between ice cold tiles, where the young Aban Lee stared as water gushed from the shower overhead and trickled down his back. He listened attentively to his peers, but he couldn’t allow himself to take part.

 _Don’t look up_.

The banter was light hearted and jovial today, but Aban knew that the lion’s den could shift at any moment. All it would take was a single misheard word, a misinterpreted glance, and they would turn on him in an instant. As always, he kept his eyes down and kept to himself. His goal: to get clean, get dressed and get out as soon as possible.

Aban was the type of boy who typically managed to go undetected, slipping through the cracks when his more vicious peers were looking for somebody to torment. Despite ranking in the top five for most of his classes, he was spared the label of “geek” or “nerd”, simply because he didn’t have the outward appearance or anti-social mannerisms expected of a stereotypical nerd. Plus, his willingness to help others made him fairly likeable.

Naturally athletic like his father, Aban had a particular fondness for running. Team sports, on the other hand, made him anxious; terrified of the prospect of failing and letting the entire team down. He dreaded their spiteful glares when he would miss a pitch in baseball. Teenaged boys could be merciless, unforgiving creatures.

 _Wuss_.

After his initial grapple with puberty, he emerged as a particularly handsome butterfly. It wasn’t just his mother who thought so; soon he found himself as the subject of some misguided girl’s affection. This didn’t cause him much issue with the other boys, thankfully, as Aban never seemed to reciprocate. He would face the odd jealous remark or find threatening notes slipped into his locker, instructing him to stay away from Heather or Winnie or Pauline or some other name he didn’t even recognise. It was no skin off his back.

So for the most part, Aban Lee was safe from ridicule. If he was careful, it would stay that way. He only had to keep to himself, keep everything he thought and felt locked up, deep inside the cracks of his mind. And he would only have to do it for the rest of middle school.

Then high school.

Perhaps during college, just to be sure.

Maybe even for the rest of his life.

Aban pursed his lips together to stifle a sigh, lifting his head as the water flow staggered to a halt. He kept his eyes close to the floor as he rummaged for a towel, dabbing himself dry and wrapping it around his waist.

_Clean, check. Now to get dressed._

A dozen conversations drifted by Aban’s ears as he hurried to his locker and pulled out his gym bag. It was difficult not to listen when he had no one to talk to. A boy like him wasn’t averse to making friends; he had few, namely two geeks from his science class and a boy he had known since kindergarten. But no discernible _group_ of friends.

In gym class specifically, there was only one boy he had any real rapport with. Darren. They always seemed to fall into the same pace during track. Aban noticed it first, but Darren was the one to playfully call him out as his rival. The two frequently bantered back and forth while trying to beat the other. If Aban really tried, he knew he could easily beat the other boy, but he preferred to hang back and enjoy the conversation.

“Don’t be so _gay_.”

Aban’s head snapped up, fingers halting on the buttons of his shirt. A small cluster of boys sat on the bench opposite him, erupting into a bout of laughter. A tall blond boy folded his arms across his chest, bristling slightly as his friends nudged him and snickered.

 _They weren’t talking about me. They’re just fooling around_ , he reassured himself with a sigh of relief. He remained alert while he slipped on his shoes and crouched down to tie his laces.

“Ha, I can’t be gay,” the blond boy laughed stiffly. “Who else is gonna keep your mom satisfied?”

The room echoed with a chorus of exaggerated hoots and howls, earning a smug sneer from the blond as he soaked in the praise. But Aban couldn’t help but think that he was still seething about the comment.

Blue eyes snapped to Aban and the blond boy’s face twisted. “What are _you_ looking at?” he spat pointedly, suddenly casting all eyes from him and directly onto Aban. His heart froze, averting his eyes in a split second. If they thought he was staring at them, they would think…

“Nothing,” he shook his head vehemently, snatching his gym bag as he stood.

 _Dressed, check. Time to go_.

It wasn’t just evil that grew inside of Aban Lee during that period of his life. Something else did; the very thing that made him different.

It grew under classroom desks, clasped tight between secretly joined hands. In the creases of dog-eared, folded up notes, passed back and forth in the library and stained with blotchy hearts and crosses. On the track field, in between heavy pants for air and shared water bottles. Under empty bleachers after the final bell had rung, where they were almost hidden away from the rest of the world.

Almost.

“I knew you two were fucking faggots,” a venomous voice spat. Aban’s heart jumped into his throat, shoving Darren away from him in a flash. The tall blond boy glared at them through the bleachers, flanked by two other boys.

“No we’re not!” Darren insisted, body tensing. “We were just…”

“Just _what?_ ” The other two boys swiftly made their way around the bleachers. “ _Practising?_ ” Aban knew there was no point in denying it. Those boys weren’t here for an explanation or an open minded debate. They wanted to persecute, to lynch, to feel superior in any way they could. They wanted to fight, but Aban was anything but a fighter. He was a runner.

“Darren, _run_ ,” he mustered, pivoting on his feet and sprinting for the entrance to the gym. He didn’t have time to look back to see if Darren was following. His feet carried him as though he was on auto pilot, too fast for his mind to keep up. A fourth boy seemed to leap out from nowhere – Aban hadn’t realised until he collided face-first into the bony shoulder and was knocked back onto the ground with a heavy thud.

Grimacing in pain, Aban keeled onto his side. Before he could push himself up, a foot pressed into his back and forced him down into the dirt. “Quick,” an unfamiliar voice boomed overhead, “Grab his faggot boyfriend.”

Aban strained his neck as he tried to turn, unable to rise against the heavy foot that pinned him down. He could just about see two boys making a grab for Darren, who darted away from them faster than Aban had ever seen him run before. Darren quickly evaded them, but instead of running to Aban’s aid, he kept running.

And he didn’t stop.

“Forget it, at least we got one of them,” the blond boy sneered. He approached with the rest of his entourage and Aban squeezed his eyes shut, bracing himself.

Aban was pulled to his feet only to be shoved back down again. Five kicks to the ribs. Three punches to the gut. Two sharp yanks at his hair. He counted each and every blow. The onslaught only lasted around three minutes – five minutes tops. It was hard to keep track, but it felt like it would never end.

A wave of relief rushed over his sweat soaked body when one of them spoke, and the fists stopped raining down on him. “Come on, let’s go before his boyfriend comes back with a teacher.”

“Yeah right!” one exclaimed with a cruel guffaw. “He won’t dare tell anyone. Unless he wants the whole school to know he’s a dirty fag.”

“I’m not risking it. Come on.”

The others readily agreed. They had had their fill of misguided masculine dominance for the day. Even the most bigoted of bullies must know their limits; they had no intention of killing their prey, only to make them _wish_ they were dead.

“Hey,” the blond boy directed down at the curled up ball that was Aban Lee. He crouched down, nudging Aban onto his back with his foot. “Keep that gay shit away from us or we’ll get your fairy boyfriend next time. And don’t even _think_ about looking at us in the locker room, faggot.”

He spat down at Aban, but the boy couldn’t tell where it landed. Keeping his eyes shut, he waited until their footsteps trailed off and there wasn’t a sound before slowly picking himself up from the ground, hobbling back into the school building.

Darren didn’t run with him anymore after that. It left a gaping hole inside of Aban; a perfectly sized, dark abyss for evil to flourish. He forced it down, suppressed it as best he could. Tried to hide who he was and how he felt. But hiding it wasn’t enough. The bullying didn’t stop, now that they knew his secret. When Aban lost focus and he was caught absent-mindedly staring at the boys, he was sent home with a black eye and a bloodied nose.

His mother had been working a double shift at the hospital that day. Only his father was home, and caught Aban frantically fumbling with cheap off-brand foundation and a sponge as he tried to cover the bruises.

At first the man, staunch and traditional in his ways, almost had a fit when he found his son toying with makeup. When he realised Aban had been in a fight, he let out a heavy sigh of relief.

“First of all, you don’t need to paint yourself up like a woman,” he said, snatching the makeup from Aban’s trembling hands. “You’ve got nothing to be ashamed of, son. You ought to wear your black eye like a badge.”

“I didn’t want to worry mom,” Aban mumbled, but his father waved his hand dismissively.

“Your mother knows boys will be boys. I just hope the other kid looks worse than you.” Aban chewed on his lip and stared at himself in the mirror. “Aban Lee,” his father’s voice made him wince, “You _did_ fight back, didn’t you?”

“I… didn’t want to get in trouble,” his voice trailed off, already knowing that wouldn’t be an acceptable excuse in his father’s eyes.

“Trouble? You won’t get in trouble for self-defence! If you don’t fight back, you’ll have everyone thinking you’re nothing but a fairy.” Aban winced at the sudden pang in his chest. He could see his brows flinch in the mirror and he tried his best to steady himself. He couldn’t let anyone know. Not his father. Not his friends. Not any more bullies.

The next few weeks were spent trying to fly under the radar. Aban skipped gym class, for fear of being caught looking at anyone the wrong way. By now he wasn’t even sure if there was a _right_ way when someone knew that you were gay. When he passed Darren in the hall, he kept his head down or walked the other way. When he needed to use the bathroom, he avoided the urinals and went straight for the stall.

Apparently that wasn’t enough.

As Aban left the stall during his lunch break, he saw the tall blond boy propped laxly over the urinal. Aban quickly looked away, walking to the sink to wash his hands. He wouldn’t leave without doing that first.

“You better not be looking at me, fag,” the boy directed at him. Aban dipped his head down, staring intently at the liquid soap he lathered quickly between his fingers.

_Keep your head down._

_Don’t look._

_Don’t respond._

“Looks like nowhere in this damn school is safe from homos and perverts.” He could hear the boy pull up his zipper. Aban turned to the hand dryer, with the straightest face he could muster. But the boy still glared at him and when Aban’s eye line connected with his, the boy stomped forward. “What the fuck did I say?”

Aban couldn’t stay silent anymore. He couldn’t just lie down and take another beating. He couldn’t have his father, or anyone else for that matter, think he was some weak fairy. Wiping his hands dry on his trousers, Aban straightened his back and glared right back.

“You said not to stare, and I wasn’t staring.” 

“Sure looks like you were. Just because that other queer dumped you doesn’t mean that I-“

His words were cut short with a fist straight to the mouth. The boy stumbled back and clasped a hand to his jaw, gawking at Aban for a moment. Aban’s heart raced in his chest, his face frozen in fear and his knuckles aching from the foreign impact. Something deep within him awakened; a twisted, primal urge. He didn’t have long to savour it. The boy’s shock contorted into anger and suddenly he was lunging towards him. Aban’s first instinct was to run, but something compelled him to stay and fight. He wanted to feel the triumph of a well-aimed punch once again. He wanted to knock that piece of shit to the floor and pummel him into the tiles just like they had done to him. Leaping back just in time to avoid the attack, Aban swung again. Kicked. Grabbed. Rammed.

He limped home that day, face bloodied and slightly swollen, with a week worth of detention. As he surveyed the damage in his bathroom mirror, he could say with certainty that the other boy _didn’t_ look worse than him. But that didn’t dishearten him, because Aban _had_ fought back and he had left more than a few marks on his bully.

As Aban Lee stared at himself in the mirror, his determination swelled like the contusions on his nose. With a little more upper body strength and experience, he would be able to hold his own against one or two brazen bullies with ease. No one could accuse him of being weak or prissy then. No one could beat him into the ground and make him feel worthless for being who he was. He would be the one to make _them_ feel worthless. Worthless and moronic for ever underestimating him.

His face throbbed, the cut on his lower lip splitting slightly as it curled into a smirk. In the guise of confidence and conviction, Aban Lee watched as the evil grew inside of him.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfic in like 8 years so I'm sorry if it's a bit messy. I was just really excited to post it and get feedback. I hope you enjoy it nonetheless ^-^ I'm very open to constructive criticism, so please feel free to leave a comment! I hope this is the first fanfic of many.


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